


Don't Hide Your Eyes

by airafleeza, geckoholic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Canon Temporary Character Death, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Five years after Thanos erased half the universe, the people who faded from existence came back. Problem is, they didn't quite come back alive.Or: a post-Endgame Zombie AU.





	Don't Hide Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is kinda based on In The Flesh and also kinda based on Warm Bodies, except it's not as depressing as the former but a good deal more depressing than the former. Yay? XD It's more character study than splatter, though. 
> 
> Wonderful art by [airafleeza](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com) will be up soon!!
> 
> EDIT: Hi!!! It's Ashlee. Art for the wonderful fic is now up!! <3 Major kudos to geckoholic. <3 <3 <3

Bucky hasn't been to the countryside since he was a small child. Unless one counts the excursions with the Howlies in the war, which he doesn't. Some of the places where he was kept on ice were also somewhat rural, but.. not the point.

And now here he is, breathing in air that faintly smells like flowers and hay and the nearby forest. The sanatorium's vast lawns are lined by fields of grain, and he watches them sway in the breeze. Little island with flower arrangements break up the lawn here and there. Willow and magnolia trees are planted at random all over the property, and not for the first time Bucky wonders if they're supposed to grow in the same place, or if they only do that here because of some landscaper's vision. He knows shit about trees. He never cared much for anything that grows and blooms; never had too much contact with it either. Now, he kind of likes them, enjoys sitting in the shade of one of those magnolia trees and reading. For some reason, they remind him of Wakanda, the happiest he's been since he was young and innocent.

In all the nice, glossy brochures it says that the sanatoriums were set up in the countryside because of how peaceful and calming the environment is. The perfect place for the recently revived to focus on working on their impending reintegration in society. Or what's left of society; for all that the scientists lamented about overpopulation before, losing a significant percentage of its citizens from one second to the next left every country on earth reeling.

And while it works on him, the peace and quiet, Bucky suspects that they've all been shipped out to sanatoriums in the middle of nowhere for much less life-affirming reasons. Should some of them fall rabid again, the consequences were potentially less severe if they're kept away from the leaving and breathing humans left in the cities. At worst, a few nurses and doctors would be lost before the military could arrive and get a hold of the situation, which would be unfortunate, but preferable to a replay of the great epidemic in the spring of 2019. He still doesn't get why it's called an epidemic, either; then again, the general human vocabulary doesn't really offer a word for _Thanos erased millions of people from existence and when they do come back it's as mindless, flesh-eating zombies_. The general population still has trouble wrapping their heads around the fact that space is populated, heavily so, and that some purple guy used immensely powerful space jewels to make their friends and family turn into dust.

The concept of an epidemic is familiar, something they've been trained to fear, and much easier to understand.

 

***

 

ONE YEAR AGO  
DAILY MORNING NEWS SEGMENT ON RABID REVIVED

_This is Marcy Duchamp, and I'm out here reporting from the CDC headquarter again. The press release they handed out an hour ago is highly concerning. Every citizen who woke up yesterday morning to one or more revived loved one this morning should proceed with utmost caution. The incidents with attacks by the revived have yet again increased in number. There have been a few reported deaths. Officials and scientists are working tirelessly to get a better grip on the situation and advice local police and hospital staff in terms of how to handle the situation, but for the moment, it's recommended to avoid the revived and seek shelter in a locked room or within your nearest police station or emergency shelter._

_It's very understandable to be elated and relieved at finding someone you love has returned from the dead after five years. But those are not the same people that you lost. They're dangerous. Please keep that in mind, everybody, and stay safe._

 

***

 

That word – zombie – is something he learned here. No one ever uses it in the news or official reports. Dougie, his first roommate, showed him some old zombie movies from the seventies, and to this day Bucky finds the foresight in creating these monsters hilarious. Or maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. What does he know. Either way, a pop culture phenomenon caught up with mankind, and he could laugh about it for days. Kind of. He doesn't. His therapist says it would be insensible. His therapist thinks Bucky's a few slices short of a whole cake, but he's also convinced that Bucky already suffered from the world's most complicated case of PTSD before he dissolved into dust back in Wakanda, so that's fine. Here, they only judge their patients on whether or not they're liable to start biting random people on their first grocery run back in regular society. Everything else is but a bump in the road.

In all honesty, Bucky already had half a mind to bite people during grocery runs, sometimes, back when he was a non-zombified boy in New York. That boy had a way with people, was harmless and charming and had no crimes on his conscience worse than skipping school or sneaking into movie theaters, but he secretly wasn't too much of a social being either. Bucky misses him. Misses being him. Hates him all they back through the decades, too.

Maybe that's a thought he should to bring up with his aforementioned therapist for their next session. It sure would lend them nice, innocuous discussion fodder for up to a week. Neither of them particularly enjoys discussing the Winter Soldier days, or what it felt like to not exist, the oxymoron of feeling that at all.

Bucky sighs, looking at his wrist watch. In about fifteen minutes, he has an appointment with the chief consultant. Those appointments happen about once a month, discussing improvement and regresses and adjustments to his therapy plan. He doesn't look forward to them – they're boring and involve talking about himself in a way that's even worse than the therapy sessions. But they're required, and so he abandons his stroll through the sanatorium's lawn garden and heads towards the chief consultant's office.

 

***

 

“Please sit down, Mr. Barnes,” she tells him from behind her sleek glass desk once her assistant led him through. It clashes with the rest of the decor, which is old-fashioned and a bit English, same as the whole building, looking like it stems from a time when America was still a colony and its citizens still thought of themselves as being part of a kingdom.

He nods at her, politely, and does as he's told. She smiles. Her fingers are folded over his patient file, his profile photo visible from his side of the large wooden desk. There's a new stamp on it, right next to that photo. Bucky can only read part of it, the rest covered by her palm, but panic immediately rises within him.

He knows what she's about to say before she opens her mouth. He keeps himself still and waits and stares at her, needing to hear the words.

“We have decided on your release date.” She smiles, but it vanes a little as she must not find the expression mirrored on his face. “In three weeks, you will be entrusted into the care of you next of kin.”

Bucky blinks. It takes him a moment to remember that, these days, _next of kin_ means Steve. “Thank you,” he says, because he figures it's expected. “Thank you very much, Ma’am.”

She stands. He does the same. She extends her hand. He shakes it. He's relegated back to assistant and handed a few documents and pamphlets. Clutching them so tightly they crease underneath his fingers, he walks back to his room and writes an email. Calls are forbidden and all other communication is monitored, so he keeps it short and to the point.

 

***

 

FIVE MONTHS AGO  
BROADCAST ON THE NYPR CONCERNING THE FIRST REALESES OF REHABILITATED REVIVED

_As most of you will have already heard, the International Board for Rehabilitation and Reintegration has issued guidelines for those of us who get to welcome a revived spouse or family member back into their home. They're part of the release day paperwork, but we thought, as a public broadcast, it'd be beneficial to give a quick overview of those guidelines._

_They first address a few common misconceptions, such as the idea that the cure administered to them at the beginning of their rehabilitation is only a temporary fix. It's true that they need follow-up shots every couple of months, but those are required to keep them in good health. The physiology of the revived is complicated, especially with concern to their circulatory and digestive systems. Their bodies need additional help to stay functional._

_Further advice includes chapters on how some revived might refuse food or sleep, even though both is still possible for them. Neither is cause for concern. Also, the issues of the development and aging of the revived is addressed, which is of special interest for parents and caregivers of elderly relatives. Those require further studies, same as the question of whether or not the revived can still father or conceive children._

_And most importantly, we can't stress enough that the revived who get released from a sanatorium don't pose a threat anymore. We know that unsettling rumors continue to circulate in that regard. The physicians and therapists at the sanatorium work tirelessly to prepare and evaluate each revived, and a release wouldn't be possible without a clean bill of health, both physically and psychologically. Keep that in mind and don't give in to hysteria._

 

***

 

Every time he wakes from the dead, the person reflected in the mirror each morning looks less and less like someone Bucky recognizes. Long, unkempt hair. A gleaming weapon where his left arm used to be. His eyes are bloodshot. His skin has a pale, greenish hue, like all the revived. The wounds and bruises he received in the battle in Wakanda are still visible, have healed differently than all the others. They would be even slower to disappear if it wasn't for the healing factor from the super soldier serum. The teeth mark on his right arm, where another revived got a bite in shortly after he reappeared, still looks a tad infected, the edges lined by an ugly pattern in a deeper green that reminds him of mold. He fills his glass mug with mouth wash again, still unable to shake the idea that he stinks like something rotten. A set of makeup and some contacts sit on his nightstand, designed to make him look more alive; he got it a few days after his release has been announced and had a few lessons in applying it. He doesn't intend on ever doing that.

The pamphlets talk about how it's unclear whether the revived can procreate. Bucky wonders who'd even fuck a walking corpse, much less a dark and haunted creature like him. The last time, Steve didn't mind, welcomed him back into his bed as the Winter Soldier without so much a blink. But at least, then, he'd still looked like a person. Bucky has been a wild beast, one way or another, for longer than he's been strictly human. He finally looks like it, too, metal arm and green, moldy skin and all.

And now they think he's has successfully gotten rid of any beastly urges and his discharge from the sanatorium is right around the corner. Tomorrow. Steve will pick him up tomorrow.

He's excited. He's worried. He's nervous.

Steve has written him long emails every day since Bucky told him about his impending release, how he's looking forward to getting Bucky back and about all that he plans to do, all the trips he's considering once Bucky is back in New York, and even some suggestions of a distinctly raunchy nature. It's cute. Bucky has yet to figure out how he'll politely inform Steve that he'll be fine to inhale that gorgeous, disgusting, stale city air for awhile, feel how different it is from the countryside, and explore their old haunts. He ignores those raunchier suggestions altogether, avoids the thought of ever getting physical again as best as he can.

To feel a little bit normal, that's all he wants. He knows it's likely futile, but that doesn't keep him from _wanting_.

He makes a face at his reflection and turns away from the mirror, switches the light in the bathroom off and marches to his bed. He stares at the thin, light-blue, hospital-issue sheets for a minute before he gets in between them for the last time. Bucky sleeps most nights, and his therapist insists that means he's lucky. His therapist can say that. He doesn't have Bucky's nightmares.

 

***

 

Two bags contain all his worldly possessions, most of them clothes. The smaller one is almost exclusively filled with state-issued underwear. He's got some tokens from his roommates – a DVD from Dougie, for example – and a few things Steve or Natasha sent him. For having been alive, more or less, for about a century, it's a pitifully small amount of possessions.

That's okay, though. Means he won't take up too much space in Steve's apartment, in Steve's life.

He sits on his bed and waits for the all from the chief consultant that means Steve has arrived to pick him up. In the early days, people were shipped out to their old or new homes with via military transports, but that lead to some protests from the neighbors, some violence even. As a result, nowadays, their next of kin are responsible for collecting them at the sanatorium. Bucky wonders if this is what it would have been like to get a regular release from the army after the war. He attempts, for a moment, to imagine having his family welcome him back, but discards the thought as too painful to contemplate.

He clutches his bags, and his gaze falls to the make up set on his nightstand. He hadn't packed it. He intended to leave it behind. On a whim, he stuffs it into the smaller bag, along with all the underwear.

The phone rings. Bucky answers it, confirms that he's read, and waits for the footsteps in the hallway that means the chief consultant has let Steve to his room. He doesn't dare breathe. He keeps his eyes downcast and the shame is familiar; he felt it in Romania, too, when Steve first found him after their fight in DC.

And just like back than, he needn't have worried. Steve welcomes him with open arms and won't even let go of him fully on their way down the hallway and out of the building. He keeps a hand pressed to Bucky's back as if he's worried Bucky will disappear the second he stops touching him.

Which, well. Bucky can't blame him. There has been precedent.

 

***

 

Steve's apartment is modest, not much bigger than the place he had with his mother as a child. The neighbors greeted them on the way up. A young girl, sitting on the steps to the building, looked at Bucky with wide eyes, a bit scared, but she seemed to relax when she saw Steve at his side. Bucky swallowed and kept his head down. But he does notice how Steve still inspires trust where he inspires fear.

He may be retired, the Avengers officially disbanded, but Steve's still Captain America. He's still the same guy that Bucky grew up with, the same guy that followed him into a war to safe him. The contrast between them couldn't be harsher.

Upstairs, he hands Bucky a second set of keys. He waffles on about how Bucky can help him redecorate, if he likes. He shows Bucky around – living room, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom – explains where most of the necessities are found and presents him with a chest of drawers in the latter. The clothes in Bucky's bag fill out maybe half of them, and he huffs at the sight of the other drawers being left empty.

Steve laughs. “We'll buy more, don't worry. You're home now.”

It's true, in a sense. _Home._ That's been such an abstract concept for so long, and, boiled down, it means to be around Steve. Bucky nods, tries to think of a way to keep the conversation going. “Where am I gonna sleep?” he asks, because it's the first thing that springs into his head, and also, it's practical. “Couch?”

Steve looks like he wants to argue, looks disappointed, even, but his smile recovers quickly. “Yeah. I'll put out a blanket and some linen later.”

Bucky doesn't need either, although he refrains from pointing that out. He also refrains from explaining that Steve doesn't need a living corpse in his bed, deserves better than whatever Bucky has left to give. He nods in thanks and goes to put up his toiletries in the bathroom. The tokens and gifts, he leaves in the bag, propped into one of those empty drawers. He pops his head back out of the bathroom to ask, “Can I take a shower?”

The wrong thing to say, again. Steve sighs at him, doesn't bother saving his encouraging smile this time. “This is your home as well as mine, Buck. I just told you. Of course you can take a shower.” Bucky blinks at him, frozen, unable to conjure up a fitting reply, and Steve frowns. “Towels are in the cupboard next to the mirror,” he says. “Put them on the drying rack after you're done.”

Bucky nods slowly and closes the bathroom door.

 

***

 

Despite all the plans Steve shared with him during the past three months, for the first couple of days, they don't leave the apartment. Bucky sleeps a lot. Steve lets him be, makes a few grocery runs only to end up ordering in, makes endless phone calls to his old team, and Bucky can't figure out whether it's because Bucky doesn't start any conversations or because, if he's talking to enough other people, he won't be tempted to try and start one with Bucky. The whole thing is weird; they've been through a lot, but they've rarely ever been awkward around each other.

Bucky knows it's his fault. He's shutting himself off. But there's only so many times one can face death and return as more of a monster before their social skills wither away. He doesn't know how, and that it's Steve makes it all so much worse. He always used to know _how_ around Steve.

But Steve wouldn't be Steve if he'd let that become their new status quo. On the fourth morning, he plants himself in front of the couch that Bucky has barely left all week and announces, “I'm going to the gym. You can either come with me, or you can stay here.”

He's not angry when he says it, or demanding. He's firm, sure, but it's still only a suggestion. And yet, something in the way he cocks his head, in the way his eyes shine with helpless determination, makes Bucky unfold his legs and stand up, trying a cocky smile. “If we go shopping for gym clothes first, sure. Can't let myself be seen in the shit they gave me in the sanatorium.”

Steve's face lights up, and then he feigns a distasteful grimace. “Not just gym clothes, though. We've gotta get you a whole new wardrobe.”

Bucky shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes, but he secretly kind of expected that response. He heads to the bathroom to get changed, and just on the way out, the makeup set catches his eyes. He hesitates long enough that Steve peers through the half-open door, worry on his face.

“Did you change your mind?” he asks, but then he follows Bucky's line of sight. “Oh.”

Bucky looks at him. “Do you think I should use it?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders. “Do you want to?”

“I think it looks ridiculous,” Bucky replies, glaring into the mirror. “No amount of makeup can hide what I am now.”

Steve reaches for his hand and tugs him away, far enough that he can't see his reflection anymore. “Then leave it. I don't care, and if anyone else does, well they don't have to look, now, do they?”

That's simplifying the matter and Steve must know that as well as Bucky, but hearing Steve claim, out loud, that he doesn't care, still helps. Bucky takes the makeup set and shoves it in the small waste-bin underneath the sink.

 

***

 

Their shopping tour is surprisingly uneventful; no one ever pays much attention to who might pass them on the street when they're shopping, and the store clerks seem used enough to the situation already that they're only looking at the money to be made by replacing entire outfits in one go. It might help, too, that Captain America gives them his best people-pleasing smile while flashing Stark-sponsored credit cards. They buy gym clothes, leisure clothes, everyday clothes, formal clothes, shoes, underwear, the whole nine.

Heaving all the shopping bags through the city and up into the apartment, it turns out, qualifies as its own kind of workout. Nevertheless, they do hit the gym afterward. It's early afternoon and they're almost alone; Steve's go-to-gym is rather small, a former box club rather than one of those modern muscle factories with large glass windows, and most of its regular costumers are still in the office or wherever, waiting to hit the gym after work. Bucky prefers it this way; he's still not too keen on being among a large group of strangers, still afraid he'll cause bad memories, and this way he can relax while he tests out the limits of his body after this latest change. He already did some workouts at the sanatorium, but there, he set himself limits so as to not rise suspicion with the physical therapists that led each of his training sessions. But Steve understands. Steve doesn't have to ask what it's like to explore the boundaries of a changed body.

He lifts weights and he does situps and he runs the treadmill and he finds out that this body still sweats and gets exhausted, and he just keeps pushing. He doesn't feel the blood thrum underneath his skin, which is a bit odd, but he does get out of breath. He throws Steve a grin, grateful and relieved, and he cherishes the equally relieved grin he gets in return.

They get ready to leave before the nine-to-fivers can roll in, but by the time they're out of the shower there are already a few stragglers roaming about the changing rooms. Steve's expression turns alarmed. Bucky sets his face into a stoic masks. He can feel them looking. Their gaze stutters at his green skin, his scars, his arm. He can see their disgust, their fear.

Half-dressed, he balls his hands into fists, sets his jaw. He wants to tell them that none of this his fault, that he didn't want to be a weapon, didn't want to be a goddamn _zombie_ , that they were lucky and shouldn't judge people by their misfortune, but he knows how he looks. It's not their fault either.

Steve reaches for Bucky, places a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky flinches, reeling around on him. Steve smiles like only Steve can. “Let's go home. Been a lot for one day, right?”

 

***

 

12 HOURS AGO  
BREAKING NEWS ANNOUNCEMENT ON CNN

_An incident in Detroit earlier today is causing many people to worry. A seemingly rehabilitated revived, only three days out of a sanatorium, is said to have gone rampant in a shopping center today. The woman, 52 years of age, bit her husband and another costumer in a flower shop for seemingly no reason. The authorities are investigating the incident, and there's a press conference planned tomorrow where statements from his doctors and therapists in the sanatorium will be read. For now, we urge everyone to stay calm. This is the first such incident in nearly six months and no cause for concern in regard to the rehabilitation of all revived. More on this story as it develops._

 

***

 

Steve glares at the TV screen like he could make the news announcement go away by if he stares at it disapprovingly for long enough. Now he's the one who refuses to get up from the couch, and Bucky gets a taste of how powerless Steve must have felt during those first couple of days. Steve alternates between clicking between news channels and making calls, and Bucky contemplates to take away both the TV and his phone. He knows that won't help, though, won't stop Steve from obsessing.

“Some shrink got it wrong,” he tries to calm the waves. “It's happened before, with criminals released too early, it was bound to happen with a revived sooner or later. Doesn't mean the whole system is useless.”

He even half believes his own bullshit, manages to imbue it with some conviction, but Steve only gives him the stink eye. “Oh, shut up. Did you read your pamphlets once too often?”

Steve can get mean when he gets upset. Bucky has never let it bother him, and he's not about to start now. “Fuck you. I've been in one of those sanatoriums until pretty recently, in case you forgot. They're careful, and they're pretty keen on covering their asses as well. No one wants to risk another epidemic.”

Steve stares at him for another moment, then turns his attention back to the TV. “We failed. They're all like that because _we failed_. You... I lost you again because _I failed_.”

The words are quiet, resigned, almost inaudible. Steve sniffs, runs a hand down his face, and when he turns back around to Bucky he looks like the weight of the world never ceased resting upon his shoulders and he's on the verge of breaking.

Bucky can't find any words big enough to absolve Steve of the guilt he feels for not beating Thanos the first time around, for the snap, for the unfathomable amount of people it affected all over the universe. That was _Thanos_ but it's in Steve's very nature to take the responsibility, the failure, onto himself. He would have seen it as his duty to avoid the snap altogether. He would have seen it as his duty to make sure all these people they lost for five years would come back whole and fully alive. He can't ease that pain. But the second part, he can work with. Steve grieved him three times. He tries not to think about that, or about how it would have hurt the other way around, but there's one simple fact which even Steve, in the middle of beating himself up, can't deny.

“Hey,” Bucky says, and waits for Steve to turn meet his eyes. “I'm still here. Okay? You didn't lose me. You didn't fail me either.”

Steve avoids his gaze, looks out the window. “You didn't seem like you were _here_ much at all since you got back.”

“I...” Bucky starts. He exhales. “Look at me.” Steve closes his eyes and buries his face in his hands, and Bucky can hear him utter a whispered curse. But then he does meet Bucky's eyes again, listening. “I changed. I don't know what I am anymore – who I am. But _I'm still here_. And if there's one person I'd trust to help me figure it out, then that's you.”

Steve gives him a hoarse laugh; it sounds almost painful. “That makes one of us.”

Bucky walks around the couch to sit down beside him and nudges his shoulder. Steve doesn't shove him back, so Bucky does it again, and again, until Steve finally takes pity on him and retaliates. “You always believed in me. What kinda boyfriend would I be if I didn't pay you back in kind?”

He knows his voice wavers a little on _boyfriend_ but it's worth the gamble for the genuine, happy surprise that it puts on Steve's face.

 

***

 

That night, it's not the fear of nightmares that keeps him up until the early morning hours. He keeps sitting up on the couch to glance into the bedroom, where Steve sleeps. Where Steve invited him on day one. The door is ajar, and he can see part of Steve's silhouette under the covers. His sleep seems unusually fitful; he tosses and turns and makes unhappy little noises every time he almost wakes, but drifts back off again.

It's more day than night when Bucky decides he's seen enough, and that he'll need to do something about it instead. He gets up from the couch and pads into the bedroom. He sits down on the bed and squeezes Steve's shoulder, says his name. Startling a sleeping soldier is a bad idea; they've both had ample experience with that. Steve peers up at him, sleep-drunk and only half aware, but Bucky judges it to be sufficient. He lifts the covers and slips underneath them, wrapping himself around Steve from behind.

What he didn't plan for is that Steve might turn in his arms and nuzzle at his neck, his jawline. Bucky keeps himself very still, unsure whether he should let this happen or put a stop to this – whether Steve even actually _wants_ to touch this body. He angles his head out of the way when Steve graduates to pressing little, nipping kisses to the corner of his mouth, his fingers dancing lightly over the skin on Bucky's back.

The green, somewhat rotten skin.

Steve shushes him. “Don't worry. It's okay. I know what I'm doing. You said you'd trust me to help you figure this out, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits. “I said that.”

Steve's lips meet his own. It's a chaste kiss, an experiment for them both, and after they've parted, Steve gets comfortable in his embrace and settles back down, soon snoring peacefully – as peacefully as ever, when he got to rest in Bucky's arms.

It's a start. They'll figure the rest out, too, with time.


End file.
